Honey, I'm Home
by Scribbling Notes
Summary: "We don't say anything more; we just stay that way for a few more moments, basking in the quiet confines of our apartment amidst the busy streets of New York. Times like this, I can truly say: I wouldn't trade this for anything, that this is what I've been waiting for all those years; this is the life I want to live forever—with you." AU. I think we all need some fluff after S4E04.


**Spoiler: **None. This is AU. (Wishing so hard for this to be canon, though.)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. This is purely a figment of my imagination.

**A/N:** Hi. I think we all need some fluff after that _episode_ I'd like to pretend never happened, which it did and I am in pain. But...can I just say that our ladies (Naya Rivera and Heather Morris) both did a wonderful job. I am still in pain. Sigh. I won't say anything more because I'd like to not spoil anyone who hasn't seen the episode yet.

Anyway. Shameless fluff, everyone. Enjoy!

Please take some time to leave a review because it would really mean a lot.

**Thank you** for reading, and ship on.

* * *

**Honey, I'm Home  
**

They say that routines get boring and that you get _so_ used to them that they get… tiring. But, that's what I don't understand; I can't imagine how this will ever get _tiring_. Because, for me, it's so much more than just what they call it: a _routine_. It's your life. It's the one that you make and prepare for from the very start. So then, when you get to that point when you finally get to start _living_ it, why should it ever get tiring?

* * *

I love my job. I get off work at four, sometimes five in the afternoon, after all the kids have gone and the studio is all tidied up. I don't think I can even call it _work_; it's so different from what they call 'boring office' and whatnot. It doesn't ever feel like _work_ whenever I step into the studio, my workplace. It's like going to Glee back in the day, during high school; and I quote, "Glee is the best part of my day."

Needless to say, I love to _dance._ I don't think I'll ever not love dancing. There is just something about dancing that puts you in a trance, in a world that is pure of nothing but bliss, away from the world, from reality.

It's true, what they say, that when you're young, all you want is to grow up real fast and get a job; and when you're all grown up and working, all you'll want is to become a kid again. Be a kid, have that unadulterated happiness without a care in the world.

I miss it, sometimes.

Being a grown-up is tough, yeah. But, when I dance, when I teach it to the kids, I get to feel it again, too. It makes me happy. I find joy seeing kids having the best time of their lives, losing themselves to the music blaring out from the stereo, laughing to their hearts' content when they turn and stumble upon their own little feet. It's like seeing myself in the past.

But, I wouldn't want to go back. Not ever.

* * *

I fumble for the keys inside my bag to the 2-bedroom apartment and successfully pick out the key to the front door (it took a lot of failed attempts the first few months). I step inside and place the keys on the bowl placed atop an oak end table near the door.

I take a quick, hot shower and tidy up the apartment. It always looks like a storm had gone past the rooms whenever I leave for work; towels are thrown carelessly about, clothes discarded haphazardly on the floor, dirty plates and coffee mugs on the sink and all. And so, I don't waste any time and get to my cleaning.

After I clean up the apartment, although not thoroughly, I start to pull out food from the fridge and fix something up for dinner.

I love cooking for _you, _for _us. _It makes me feel like we're finally grown-ups.

You tell me that I'm the best personal chef anyone could dream of having. But, I know that I'm not the world's best cook; I know you're just saying it. It's either you just want me to keep cooking for you, or you really like seeing me wear nothing but an apron. But anyway, I'm not the worst cook, either. I got better after some time—after numerous wasted, burned food and a few times I almost set the whole building on fire.

On days like this one, when I'm tired from work, the cleaning up and cooking gets a bit tedious. I'm really glad that we take turns on doing all these things, whomever's schedule would allow it because I don't think I can do it all the time by myself. My muscles, although used to exertion, tend to get strained, too. I hate whenever I get the feeling. So, after I'm done, I lay down the couch and glance at my phone. It's half past six, and I still have a few minutes.

I know I've fallen asleep because my eyes won't quite open completely. I hear the faint noise of keys and the sound of the door being unlocked, and it makes the once steady beating of my heart quicken.

"_Honey,_" you call as you push through the white wooden door. "_I'm home_."

I did hear you. It's the sound I've been waiting for the whole day—for you to utter those few words. Other times, you would say, "_Baby, I'm home_," or "_Sweetie, I'm here_." Either way, hearing you, like you're announcing it to the world that you've come _home, _makes my day. It beats dancing. It beats feeling like a kid again when I teach. It beats _everything_.

Almost everything.

I hear your light footsteps against the hardwood floor getting nearer. Without a doubt, you see me lying on the couch. I'm awake, yet still too sleepy and a bit tired to open my eyes. I know you understand. You always do.

"_Hey_," you whisper sweetly as you gently try to bring me out of my slumber, stroking my hair with your nimble fingers. "_You tired, baby_?"

Your voice is deep and laced with concern. It's funny, because I should be the one asking you that question. I can only imagine how hard work must be for you; even if you tell me about it, I can never fully know the stress and everything unpleasant that comes with it. Then you come home from work, and you ask _me_ questions like these, it only makes me love you more. Until now, I've never quite understood why they used to think of you as scary, or a b-i-t-c-h, because you were _never_ that for me. You're the kindest, most caring, most passionate person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Even without opening my eyes, I know that you're kneeling in front of the couch where my body's sprawled across, watching my face for any signs of discomfort, following the rise and fall of my chest.

I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. "_No_," I whisper, but I think it only came out as something incoherent, like I'm mumbling out words in my sleep. I open my eyes slowly, drowsily.

"_Hmm?_" you ask, brushing the bangs out of my eyes.

With my eyes now open, I can see your face, your eyes—the ones I've been looking for all day, forever will be looking for.

As I gradually regain my consciousness, I feel utterly rested. And, I know that it had little to do with the nap I just had; my exhaustion from a long day was now part of my unremarkable dream, fading completely.

"_Not anymore_," I say quietly as I study the contours of your face, as though I'm seeing them for the first time. I can't help but think how pretty you are.

"_Good_," you say just as quietly, a little smile evident on the corner of your lips; your eyes roaming all over my face.

We don't say anything more; we just stay that way for a few more moments, basking in the quiet confines of our apartment amidst the busy streets of New York. Times like this, I can truly say: I wouldn't trade _this_ for anything, that this is what I've been waiting for all those years; this is the life I want to live forever—with you.

"_San?_" I say, breaking the growing silence between us. It's the only name I would ever want to come out of my lips.

You raise your eyebrows, eyes kind and inquiring. "_Yeah, B_?"

"_I really love you_." I can't help it. I can't say it enough. It's just there, nagging at the back of my mind, and it just keeps growing.

You don't say anything right away; you just stare at me, a serious look on your face. It makes my heart grow even more frantic, because I want to know what's going on through your pretty head that's always been so mysterious. Though you're not a mystery to me anymore, there are still times when I can't read you—but that's okay.

"_You do_?" you ask, as though I'm asking you to find the key to an unsolved puzzle.

I smile a little, because I know you just want to hear it again. I know that you do, because I love hearing it just as much as you. Maybe even more, I think.

"So_ much_." I should tell you this simple truth every moment, every chance I get, or I'll surely regret it.

Without another word, you lean in closer and I could feel the warmth radiating from your body. I wrap my arms around your neck and gently pull you closer to me. All of a sudden, you're lying lightly on top of me, and I know that I'll never want anyone else's body on top of mine. Just yours. Just you.

"_Kinda missed you_," I breathe out as you rest your forehead against mine.

You snicker. "_I missed me, too_," you say as you brush your nose against mine, your warm breath ghosting over my skin.

I wonder if it were the thumping of my heart I could feel, or if it were yours. "_Shut up_," I say affectionately.

You nod with a coy smile on your full, luscious lips. You let your lips brush ever so lightly against mine, making me breathe out a sigh, before parting your lips to meet mine in a slow, open kiss.

It's been months-the best months of my life. It's been like this ever since I agreed to move in with you once we get to New York.

I don't get how this—_our _routine—will ever get _tiring._ Seeing, hearing, knowing, that you, Santana Marie Lopez, will come home to _me_ every single day, makes me the luckiest, happiest person.

And, I know, I'm certain that I'd give _anything _for it to remain this way every single day, for as long as I live.


End file.
